


Lightning (Struck Before Me)

by sanva



Series: The Lone Wolf Dies (The Pack Survives) [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dragons, Dragonstone, Gen, Might be slightly cracky? But serious crack?, Ned didn't go south, One Shot, Season 7 AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-15
Updated: 2017-09-15
Packaged: 2018-12-30 02:11:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12098409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sanva/pseuds/sanva
Summary: “Send the letters,” her voice came out clear, unwavering, resolute, “request House Stark, Arryn, and Tully send representatives to treatand bend the knee.”





	Lightning (Struck Before Me)

**Author's Note:**

> So, I tried to explain the backstory, but I didn't go too indepth on what happened. Dany's story was much the same, but the war in Westeros was rather different. There were three claiments (Stannis, Renly, and Joffrey) and Balon (of course) threw his hat in too.

The rain beat hard against the stone walls of the castle and the balcony she was looking out onto. Lightning flashed across the sky and down into the sea, cracking and booming with such sound Daenerys had never heard before. It was the harshest storm she could remember seeing, for all the traveling that she and her brother had done as children, running from city to city in Essos, she had never seen a storm like this before. There was a sharp bite to the pelting rain, a cold that seeped into one’s skin, that contrasted greatly to the warm, dry deserts and air of the grasslands she was used to.

She settled a gloved hand against the stone of a support, glad that an awning above was at such an angle to keep the rain out, so long as the wind didn’t force it near horizontal. The stone of this castle, her home, was unlike any she had ever seen before. Built with dragon fire and magic, her hand had commented idly the day they arrived. It was strong enough that any balcony could support the weight of Drogon with ease.

Her children, the thought of them, nestled together in the throne room, a feat only possible after brick walls put in place after the last of her ancestor’s dragons had died were torn down just days ago, brightened her mood slightly and gave her strength. Her smallest child, Viserion, had delighted in doing the deed, leaving her men to clear the wreckage and pull the Ironoak shutters from the bowels of the castle. So much of her heritage had been packed away, left to rot and gather dust. Even now the few women that had come with her army—most would join them once further vessels were completed or after the throne was won—worked to make the castle hospitable.

Stannis Baratheon had left but a token guard behind and a dozen servants, including the maester, behind when he had abandoned it to take over the Stormlands upon his youngest brother’s death. The castellan had surrendered immediately, kneeling to her in the courtyard before the door to the keep. She didn’t fully trust them, but allowed all to continue their basic duties under the watchful eye of her own people. Except for the maester, that was. She had taken away his access to his ravens to prevent any from taking flight without her say.

Taking a deep breath, Daenerys turned and eyed the long table Aegon the Conqueror had used three hundred years ago to accomplish the same feat she planned now. There was an array of figures, some new and some old, posed at different points upon the table.

She stepped forward, folded her hands together, and then glanced up at the men and women in the room. 

Princess Arianne Martell of Dorne stood regal and tall, her fingers tapping elegantly on the painted waves that lined the coast of the Westerlands. 

Lady Olenna Tyrell, lips pressed together, wearing black in mourning of the loss of her son and three of her grandchildren, sat in a high backed chair near the coastline of the Reach. Only one of her grandchildren remained to her now, a man to whom Daenerys was tentatively betrothed named Willas. It was a loose engagement, one which would likely be broken at the end of the war. It had been brokered before Ser Garlan had been killed by Euron Greyjoy in battle at Oldtown. With his death, it would be up to Lord Willas to continue his family line, something Daenerys could neither do for him, nor for her own House.

Yara Greyjoy was glaring at the marker that stood for her uncle’s fleet. To differentiate it from her own, it had been left plain, just a layer of varnish over the sanded wood. 

“The War of Three Stags has left the Crownlands barren. The eastern portion of the Westerlands, the northern half of the Stormlands, and southernmost part of the Riverlands have also been turned practically to ruins. Stannis’ attack on Lannisport and the destruction of the Redwynne fleet by Balon and his brothers have left little but well-armed merchant ships and Ironborn daring the western coastline,” Tyrion picked up the lion that sat upon Casterly Rock and turned it this way and that. “Not counting the small fleets belonging to the North and Riverlands. The battles still wage between Cersei and Stannis' forces. Though Lord Baratheon's numbers are dwindling compared to my sister's, he is a better general than my uncle and brother combined.”

"The sell swords he purchased not even a year ago have helped his cause," Olenna leaned back in her chair, "but even they will fall to starvation soon enough as frost sets in and harvests dwindle. What little fields are left for his people to harvest."

“His campaign is also helped by the neutrality of the Riverlands,” Varys commented, “Lord Edmure has taken his good brother's stance and, for the most part, managed to stay out of the conflict. Their focus stayed on the defensive, protecting their own lands from those that would take advantage of war and the coast from reavers.” He glanced over at Yara at this, but the woman ignored him. “The entire northern half of the continent seems to have found contentment in leaving the southern half to destroy themselves.”

“Their neutrality could be a blessing to us,” Tyrion said, as he set the lion down and moved to pick up a fish.

“Or a curse,” Olenna scoffed. “No matter what you’ve heard, your grace, it was not the stags that took your father's crown. Robert Baratheon may have killed your brother and sat upon the throne, but it was Houses Tully, Arryn, and Stark that enabled him to. All three are bound by blood and House Stark has many reasons not to bow before House Targaryen.”

Daenerys let her eyes drift over the painted table, eyes catching on the grey direwolf set prominently on the large, far half of the table, nearly in the center of it. _Winterfell_ , the seat of House Stark. The usurper’s dogs, her brother had called them long ago.

She lifted her chin, eyes catching the bright blue of Highgarden’s Queen of Thorns. “Perhaps, but I can think of three reasons for them to kneel.” Turning to Tyrion, she continued, “I wish to treat with the North, the Vale, and the Riverlands. Send a raven to the ruling Houses inviting to come and bend the knee.”

“Your grace, perhaps it would be best—”

“I am not my father,” Daenerys spoke softly but firmly, “but neither will I hide my strength. The North will kneel as they did centuries ago.”

“Or burn?” Arianne’s voice rang out in the room as she spoke for the first time since reporting on Dorne’s strength. 

“I have no wish to murder anyone,” Daenerys was quick to respond, “but I will not allow them to join with Cersei or Stannis against me. I will do what I have to do to unite the kingdoms under my rule.”

“Of course,” Arianne’s lips quirked in acknowledgement. “Consider this, however. The North bowed against an unknown enemy. One that they had never faced and knew only of the power and destruction that had been waged in the southern kingdoms. They heard of Harrenhal and the other battles Aegon and his sisters waged. They knew little of Valyria and never had they heard of a dragon dying but at the hand of another dragon.” She walked slowly around the table, moving towards the markings that denoted Sunspear and the Water Gardens. “But in the years since Aegon’s Conquest dragons have fallen. Queen Rhaenys’ Meraxes was the first to fall. He fell by at the hand of a Dornishman's weapon before the kingdoms were fully united. Meraxes was not the last to fall either. And riders? They are quite vulnerable as well.”

It wasn’t a threat, Daenerys knew that intellectually, but the weight of Arianne’s words still felt like one. She clenched her jaw and lifted her chin slightly. She turned her gaze back to Tyrion.

“Send the letters,” her voice came out clear, unwavering, resolute, “request House Stark, Arryn, and Tully send representatives to treat _and bend the knee_.”

 

 

It took a fortnight for the ravens to return bearing word of the three northernmost territories agreement to send emissaries to meet with her. The letters were brief and to the point. Their similar wording spoke to the fact that they had sought council with each other before coming to their decision to meet. It would be another moon before a ship with House Stark’s grey direwolf painted upon its sails appeared upon horizon, along with an entourage of five well-armed warships and another ship bearing the falcon of House Arryn.

The weather upon their arrival was dismal, something the maester had told her was typical of Dragonstone in winter. He had lamented during one of their recent conversations over the culture of the North that Dragonstone's winter weather bore resemblance to the North's usual fare, just wrought with more fog. Clouds hung low, though had parted enough for the sun to peak through. They were in luck as rain had yet to develop and there was but a small breeze.

Her advisors had tried to insist that she greet her _guests_ within the throne room, but Daenerys disliked the idea of sitting still upon a chair. A chair hadn’t gotten her where she was today. She, Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen had pulled herself to where she was. Clawed her way from nothing with fire, blood, and trust in herself. In her birthright. If anything, her dragons were her throne, they were by far more impressive than any chair could ever be.

There would be time enough to sit upon it when formal pledges of fealty were given.

She stood back, her dragon's perched behind her, as her guests disembarked their vessels, upon the stone path that led to the long, wooden dock where two of the vessels now berthed. The others remained in deeper water, mixed in amongst the portion of her own fleet that had stayed behind as the rest of her ships made way for Dorne and the Stormlands led by Yara and Arianne.

Her eyes trailed over the people before her as she was announced to them. There were three men at the front of the group. After Missandei finished her introduction, they spoke up, introducing themselves and the House they spoke for.

None of them bowed to her.

 _Ser Brynden Tully_ had come on behalf of his nephew, the only other living adult male of the family, she knew from her lessons. Lord Edmure had two sons, both under the age of five, with a young woman from the Vale. A cousin of House Arryn.

 _Lord Yohn Royce_ was representing young Lord Arryn and was also his regent since the death of his father in King’s Landing and his mother’s after a fight with her new husband saw them both falling through a hole in floor if the rumors were to be believed.

Both were to be expected. A child couldn’t represent himself and Lord Edmure Tully was leading the defense against Euron Greyjoy’s advances on the western coastline. She would have preferred him to be here, but Ser Brynden was a Tully.

The third man introduced was _not_ a Stark.

“You’re a Greyjoy,” she said flatly, interrupting him before he could state more than his first name, glancing aside at her advisors. Tyrion Lannister nodded subtly, letting her know her assumption was correct. “Your sister Yara has allied with me against your uncle.”

The young man nodded, blue eyes glancing toward one of the men off to their side, an Iron Islander that Yara had left behind to oversee the fleet that remained at Dragonstone. “I’ve heard.”

“Yet you would side against both Queen Yara and your uncle Euron?”

“House Greyjoy abandoned me the moment my father and sister attacked the North when he declared himself King,” Theon said flatly. “Had Lord Stark been any other man I would have been dead the moment my father’s men stepped foot on northern soil. House Stark is my family now, my allegiance lies with them.”

“And they would have you speak for them in all matters?”

Theon stared at her, his lip quirking in a way that sent fire burning down her spine. She resolutely did not allow her fists to clench nor her teeth grind tight.

“No,” Theon replied glancing over to where Rhaegal was perched upon the wall, eyes sliding over her child’s form for mere seconds before flitting back to her. She heard the way Drogon’s claws clicked upon the stone to her right as he sensed her agitation. “Not in all things. I am, I suppose you might say, in charge of the North’s western fleet.”

“You’re here to take stock of our naval strength,” Tyrion hmmed, raising an eyebrow. The man didn't deny it.

“If you do not speak for House Stark,” Daenerys bit out, her words coming out a bit harsher than she wished. Quickly, she toned down her response, “then where is House Stark’s emissary?” She turned, staring towards Varys and her Hand. “I was told that House Stark was one of the most honorable Houses within my country. That I could trust the words of Eddard Stark.”

“House Stark is and Eddard Stark perhaps more than any other,” Theon’s smile had grown, teeth baring and she felt as if she was missing a joke that no one here but the cocksure man and perhaps his colleagues were aware of. His eyes had passed over Drogon as he spoke and glanced upwards. Viserion was on top of the gate that loomed high behind them, perched upon a stone dragon. “He should be . . . ah. Impeccable timing, as always, I swear.”

Daenerys frowned and then started as a screech-roar sounded far overhead and behind them. She and her entire party turned, eyes sweeping towards Viserion who had twisted as well, staring high above the castle before he responded with a screech of his own, followed shortly by his brothers.

Her jaw dropped and the breath left her lungs as a dragon twice the size of Drogon swooped over Dragonstone, wings glinting silver and white. The dragon nearly blended in with the cloudy sky as grey and silver scales covered its belly.

The sight of it startled her and her men. Shock coursed through her entire being. This was impossible. All the dragons were dead.

All but her own.

Her _children_ were the last.

She was the Mother of Dragons. Her dragons were the impossible made flesh.

There were no others left in the world. She had been told this, time and again. Since before she could understand what dragons were and what they had meant to her family.

But there, right in front of her, as it twisted and twirled in the air before finally landing some ways off on the sandy beach nearby—with a great thump that scattered dry sand into the air and splashed the incoming tide up in a spray a dozen or more feet into the air—was the impossible.

There was a man upon the dragon, chained into a saddle the likes of which Daenerys had only read about. Armor had been fitted upon the creature in strategic places, something Tyrion had recently suggested, but none had attempted yet. Daenerys and Tyrion were the only ones that could touch her children, and only Viserion tolerated her Hand's touch for long.

She had barely managed to recover from the start as the dragon and Rhaegal met face to face, nostrils flaring. Neither made a move against the other, but Rhaegal backed away after a few seconds. Behind her, Drogon loomed protectively, sensing her unease.

The man upon the dragon dismounted swiftly, with an ease she could only dream of. It spoke of years of practice. He was dark of hair and had the look of the Starks, from what she had heard from descriptions given. As he neared Theon Greyjoy cleared his throat to speak up again.

“Princess Daenerys, it is my great pleasure,” Theon’s voice lilted a little and she would have glared had she not been trying to compose herself, “to introduce Aemon of House Stark . . . _and_ House Targaryen. The _trueborn_ son of Prince Rhaegar Targaryen and _Princess_ Lyanna Stark.”

As the young man reached them, stepping up a few steps onto the stone path, his dragon looming behind him, he adjusted the lay of the cloak he wore to let it flow about him instead of remain secured to his armor. The dragon snorted behind him, steam drifted lazily skyward, as he glanced Theon’s way, face a solemn mask.

She glanced towards her Westerosi advisors, none of which were doing much more than staring at the armored, northern dragon.

Aemon eyed her, grey eyes staring intently at her. His lips were set in a grim line as he stopped before her, settling into place next to the grinning Greyjoy. He looked nothing like her, but perhaps for the curl of his hair. It was much like Viserys' had been, perhaps a bit more wild.

There was no smile from his grim visage as he eyed her and her entourage.

“I prefer Jon.”

**Author's Note:**

> Updates are coming very soon for VB.
> 
> Jon found the egg in the crypts, presumably laid by Vermax, as a child when playing with Robb. It hatched. Things changed from there. The dragon is at least 7 years older than Dany's and was never locked up.
> 
> I know there are holes, but . . . this came out of a response to a comment on VB and _wouldn't go away_ until it was written down. So I decided to share as it is a one shot.
> 
> Edit: Random edits done for grammar/incomplete sentences and apostrophe usage. More may occur.
> 
> \----------------------  
> This has been cross posted to my FF.net account: Falcon-Rider. It is the only other website this should be on.


End file.
